


That Things Might Change

by Crowgirl



Series: Strange Mechanicals [3]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, Backstory, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:09:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9972032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: If he won’t be able to concentrate until the question is answered, he will get the answer to the question.





	1. Chapter 1

‘...and I was so sorry to see the news this morning, sir. I hope he’ll be all right.’ The maid slides a full coffee cup in front of him and stands back from the table.

‘Who will?’ James hadn’t really been listening, just letting Eileen’s voice wash over him as part of the normal morning sounds. He thinks vaguely that Elliott must have injured his wrist again and she’s apologizing for something to do with the breakfast. A glance at the table seems to show everything in the right place, though.

‘Why -- Mr. Murdoch.’ She looks surprised when he glances up at her. ‘I -- I thought you would have known, sir.’

‘What? What are you talking about? What’s happened to him?’ He’s aware that he’s demanding answers the poor woman couldn’t possibly have but the sudden pounding panic in his head won’t let him do anything else. The last time James had seen him, he had been fine and that was only two days ago. William was due for dinner tonight -- if he were ill, James is sure he would have sent a message by now--

She points to the morning paper, folded open beside his plate to an inside page with an article about an American railroad company. 

‘It was on the front page this morning, sir.’ Eileen takes a step back from the table, as if she thinks he’s going to blame her for bad news in the morning paper. He’s never been very good with servants, let alone female ones, and most of them treat him as if he were liable to explode at any moment. ‘I’m sorry, sir; I thought you’d already seen it. Will -- will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No, no, it’s fine, thank you--’ He barely notices her leave as he scrabbles at the paper trying to get to the front page. **Bank Raid Foiled** is the top headline. **Police Arrive In the Nick of Time After Last Minute Warning** , is the line just below, **Officer Injured By Raiders in Daring Escape Attempt.** _...Detective William Murdoch was injured when the raiders made an attempt to break police lines and gain their freedom. At time of writing, no further information had been received as to the officer’s state of health._

‘Christ!’ James shoves the paper away and sits back, staring at the crumpled pages as if they’re deliberately holding out information on him. What the hell sort of reporting did they call that? Someone was injured, we don’t really know much about it, but we’ll make front page copy of it anyway because that’s what we do! What sort of responsibility to the public was that? He has half a mind to call up the editor and--

‘What am I doing?’ He asks the question aloud, startling himself and the sparrow who had been thinking about hopping through the open window in search of crumbs. The sparrow darts into the bushes and James stares after it, then back down at the front page. ‘What -- the _hell_ am I doing?’ 

There’s no good answer to the question, so he goes back to the top of the article and reads the whole thing through. There’s nothing of real interest; the robbers sound like a rather stupid lot and the journalist clearly enjoyed writing up their confusion and belligerence when arrested. 

He lingers again for a moment over the sentences about William, frowning at the black type. _At time of writing…_ It doesn’t say much really. And when had the man been writing? It must have been hours, probably less, after the events. What could he possibly know about William’s health if he had been at the newspaper offices writing? 

James squints at the byline and frowns. Patrick Glynn. The name sounds familiar and, as he thinks about it, it brings up the picture of a sharp-voiced young man in an unfortunate hat. As he thinks about it, he remembers William saying something about him, too, how he had more of the novelist in him than the journalist. 

So perhaps Mr. Glynn had simply been romancing this time, too. Perhaps he had just seen William shoved or pushed -- perhaps even heard rumors about it -- and extrapolated to make a better story. That was probably it. Otherwise, he would have said what he had seen -- an actual _wound_ would be more dramatic than a vague injury which could be anything and was probably nothing.

James pushes the paper away, drinks the last of his coffee, and stands up. A message will come at some point during the morning, he’s sure, and the entire situation will become clear. In the meantime, he has work to do.

* * *

He takes the paper to his desk, finishes reading the railways article -- there’s nothing that can be of use to him -- and drops it beside his chair. He finishes two letters left from the day before, sorts a stack of notes into their proper files, and digs in a lower drawer for an empty sketchbook, planning to work on the rough outlines of a windmill project he’s been toying with for awhile.

Instead, he finds himself looking down at the paper by his foot and all he can see is the last sentence of that damned front page story: _At the time of writing, no further information…_

‘Hell.’ He kicks the paper under the desk so he can’t see it and squares himself to the tablet of paper, bracing his forearms on the edge of the desk and picking up a sharpened pencil. 

He sketches in the outlines of a set of vanes and tries to think about how the wind would push various shapes of blade, which might prove best to catch the slightest breeze. He gets lost in the sketching for a while and ends up with a design he thinks might at least be worth a trial model. He needs a close-up drawing of the vanes and top gears, though, and starts trying to enlarge his original sketch only to find he’s drawn a neat star shape that rather reminds him of a policeman’s badge. 

He glares at the page, as if it had brought forth the design of its own volition specifically to annoy him, and throws down the pencil. Glancing up at the clock, he sees it’s nearly noon. If a message were going to come, it would have by now and Eileen would have brought it. Surely being worried about his friend -- reported injured on the front page of the paper, after all! -- is perfectly natural. ‘ _Fine._ ’ If he won’t be able to concentrate until the question is answered, he will get the answer to the question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a dead give-away.

‘Yes, this is James Pendrick. I wanted to speak with Detective Murdoch.’ It’s a little underhanded, James knows, calling the station and playing the innocent with the desk constable to get information, but it should work. He waits, listening to the faint sounds of rustling paper and voices, the distant bang of a door. Then the phone is picked up again.

‘This is Constable Crabtree. You wanted to speak with Detective Murdoch?’

‘Yes. Is there a problem?’ James holds his breath and prays that George will be as loose-tongued as he usually is.

‘Ah, well--’ There’s a hesitation. ‘I’m -- I’m afraid the detective isn’t in today.’ Crabtree only now seems to realise he has no idea who he’s talking to. ‘Who is this, please?’

‘Er -- James Pendrick. Willi-- er -- the detective was -- I was expecting him for dinner tonight.’ James winces. Not only is the grammar terrible but he sounds completely self-absorbed and -- as he replays the words in his head -- vaguely cannibalistic. Also more than a little ridiculous: it isn’t even one in the afternoon and it’s a _dinner_ engagement, for heaven’s sake. Hardly the most important thing in the world. This, he thinks, is why he should really stick to designing things: he has never been as good with words and people as he is with lines and paper.

George is silent for a few seconds too long and, when he speaks again, he sounds slightly more cautious. ‘Yes, of course. Mr. Pendrick. The detective has mentioned...visiting a few times.’

James clears his throat and has no idea what to say. He shouldn’t feel a need to defend a friendship to the friend’s subordinate but, given the number of times William has actually _arrested_ him, it is a little odd that he now comes to dinner on occasion. Two or three times in the week. ‘Yes, I’ve -- I’ve been working on some projects that interested him.’

‘Oh, yes. He brought in that magnifying set-up you made.’ George sounds warmer now, less the policeman. ‘That’s a lovely piece of work, sir. With the interchangeable lenses and all. It’s much easier to handle than the one the detective had bodged up.’

James laughs before he means to. William had showed him the jury-rigged arrangement; it hadn’t been difficult to improve on and William’s unfeigned pleasure in the gift unexpectedly warming. ‘Thank you -- yes, I was quite pleased with that. I’ve actually been working on--’ 

No, that isn’t important right now. He hesitates, clears his throat. ‘But the detective is -- was he badly hurt? The newspaper didn’t say.’ And that’s a dead give-away.

George pauses for what seems to James like a second too long and James curses himself silently. ‘Oh. No. We asked Mr. Glynn to keep it quiet.’

James flushes cold all over; he can feel chill tingling in his fingertips and his chest. ‘It’s -- that bad?’ He feels faintly lightheaded and closes his eyes.

‘We hope not, sir.’ 

James hears the distant bellow of a voice over the ‘phone line. He guesses it’s Brackenreid; the man never seems to grasp the idea of speaking in anything below a shout. George says something away from the receiver, then, quickly, says, ‘He’s at the General, sir. If you were wanting to see him.’ And the receiver goes down with a sharp click.

James puts his own down more slowly, looking at his reflection in the small glass Sally had put up above the phone. She always claimed to hate the instrument and said that if she had to use it, she might as well be able to fix her hair while she stood there. 

He reaches out and carefully unhooks the mirror, holding it in both hands and looking closely at himself. He doesn’t look any different than he ever has: same hair, same eyes, same sharp features -- _fox-faced,_ Sally had said, _clever_ and claimed she liked it. She may have been being honest but it’s impossible to trust anything she said in retrospect. 

He studies his face and tries to remember if William has ever said anything about James’ looks; all he can recall is William once complimenting him on the cut of a suit coat. 

The last time he had looked into a mirror and admitted to himself in so many words that he desired another man he had been nineteen, not a line on his face, nothing to guide him except his own want. Now -- now, if he admits this, even only silently and to himself, he’ll also have to admit he’s over forty, a little worn around the edges, more experience with disappointment than he had ever dreamed of having, and with as much likelihood of having his desire realised as of selling the patent for the Pendrick Bullet.

He puts the mirror down carefully on the table beside the ‘phone, face down, and takes his hands away slowly because if he moves any more quickly, he may fling the thing against the wall just for the pleasure of hearing it break.

‘Eileen!’ He calls, his voice ringing against the walls, his eyes still fixed on the mirror. He can hear the maids moving around the parlor, the soft whisk of a carpet cleaner. ‘Eileen, I’m going out!’


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had forgotten what this was like, the continual self-examination to make sure nothing slipped through that shouldn’t.

James is lost in hospitals. They are one of the few places where he feels his authority, his intellect, can do nothing for him. Everything here is out of his power and all he can do is follow signs and ask directions and be a hindrance to people with more important things to do.

‘Murdoch?’ A nurse, a surprisingly young woman with thick, dark hair tucked back under her cap, looks at him blankly for a minute then nods. ‘Oh, yes, of course. He’s on the floor above this.’ She points down the hall. ‘You can take those stairs. Let the sister at the desk know you’re here and she’ll point you in the right direction.’

* * *

The woman upstairs is older, her voice crisp with the shadow of a German accent. ‘Yes, of course.’ She consults the ledger on her desk and points down the hall without looking up. ‘He’s in the ward just here -- the last bed, towards the window.’

James blinks. ‘He’s - on a ward?’ This hadn’t occurred to him. Of course, William would be in a private room.

The woman looks up at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Why?’

She folds her hands on top of the ledger. ‘Private rooms are for patients in need of serious care, sir. Mr Murdoch is not.’

‘But--’ James bites the words back; the look on her face is turning from firm to mulish and he doesn’t want to waste time arguing with a nurse. ‘Thank you.’ 

He turns from the desk and walks down to the double doors of the ward, now set wide open and blocked in place with metal wedges. He pauses in the door for a minute and takes a survey; it’s a -- nice -- ward or at least he thinks it is; he doesn’t have a great deal of experience with them. His mother had always insisted in private rooms.

This ward is large and quiet with beds ranged at regular intervals down each wall towards a wide set of windows at the far end, looking out over the hospital drive and lawn. About a half-dozen of the beds are occupied, he notes, as he walks towards the windows. Most of the patients appear to be sleeping; a man is sitting up and studying the pages of an illustrated paper open over his knees. There’s a young woman sitting beside the bed of an old man who is lying down, eyes closed. She has her eyes fixed on her gloved hands in her lap. None of them look up as James walks by.

William’s bed is blocked from the rest of the room by a folding screen, pushed towards the wall at the head of the bed and partially pulled out to shield the top half of the bed from the rest of the room. William is half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, propped up with folded blankets and two pillows. He’s dressed as usual except for his suit coat and shoes and his left arm is in a sling, resting over his ribs. He even has his waistcoat on, though unbuttoned. He’s pale, even more so than his usual pallor, and his gaze is fixed somewhere out the window.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ James hears his own voice, rough and unexpectedly loud, and winces.

William turns towards him, blinking as if coming awake. ‘James --’ He starts to smile but he’s clearly puzzled, his eyebrows drawing together a little. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I read about the bank raid this morning. The article --’ James takes off his hat, only now aware that he’s still wearing it, and digs his fingernails into the thick felt of the brim. ‘--mentioned your injury.’ 

William touches the sling with his free hand and shakes his head. ‘It isn’t bad. One of the men had a pocket pistol and got off a lucky shot before Higgins could collar him.’ He makes an awkward, one-handed attempt to push himself up to a better sitting position and, before he thinks about it, James is at the bedside, bracing the stack of blankets and pillows so William can rearrange himself. The bed linens smell of harsh soap and he wrinkles his nose against the tang. This close, though, he can also smell William’s sweat and soap, the chemical sting of dilute carbolic, and the faint almond scent of the hair oil that isn’t really holding William's hair in place any more.

‘Thank you.’ William lets out a long breath as he resettles and gestures to a wooden chair by the bedside. ‘Have a seat? It isn’t very comfortable, I’m afraid.’

James takes the chair, pulling it in more closely to the bed so they can speak without uncomfortably raised voices. 

‘You still haven’t told me why you’re here,’ William says and James feels himself flush and turns to glance out the window, pretending an interest in the view until he’s fairly certain his face is the correct color again.

‘The newspaper article made it sound as though something quite dire had happened.’ James thinks he’s hit the right tone: concerned friend rather than -- something else. He had forgotten what this was like, the continual self-examination to make sure nothing slipped through that shouldn’t: no look, no tone of voice, no passing touch.

‘Did it?’ William frowns. ‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘Your friend Mr Glynn wrote it up.’

‘Oh---’ William groans and lets his head drop back against the pillows, closing his eyes and shaking his head. The motion and the friction against the pillow ruin the last of the hold the oil had over his hair; it slides loose over his forehead and he absently reaches up to push it out of his eyes. James' fingers twitch and he interlaces them tightly. ‘I do wish he’d give up journalism and just write novels. He probably made it sound as though I’d lost a limb.’

James swallows hard. ‘Not quite that bad. He -- rather left it to the imagination.’

‘How did you find out I was here?’

‘Your constable told me.’

William lifts his head and looks at him. ‘You called the station?’

‘Well, I--’ James shifts on the hard seat and tries to think of a way to explain himself that isn’t an entire giveaway. His fingers are itching to reach out and adjust the sling, fix the clumsily made knot at the back of William’s neck that’s clearly causing him discomfort, and he has to admit, even if only in the privacy of his own head, that behind that is a desire to touch _William_ and make sure he’s all in one piece. ‘The newspaper did make it sound as if something rather -- alarming had happened. I thought perhaps -- since we had a dinner engagement --’ William is watching him. Usually, James doesn’t even notice this but today he can feel William’s dark eyes like points of heat on his skin. ‘--I -- was concerned when there was no message and -- and I thought the easiest thing to do would be to call the station.’

William nods. ‘I’m sorry I forgot about dinner -- I would have sent a message.’

‘You’ve been _shot._ Dinner...really isn’t that important.’ James tries not to wince as he says it, the words are in such direct opposition to his presence here.

William makes a small sound that could mean anything and goes on, ‘They’re releasing me this afternoon. I suppose I would have remembered when I got home.’

‘You’re going _home?_ To that _boarding_ house?’ James tries and fails to keep the horror out of his voice.

‘Where else would I go?’

‘A nursing home, a -- a proper _room!’_ James waves a hand at the ward about them and William smiles.

‘You’re far more particular than I am -- my room will be fine. All I need is rest for a few days.’ He waves his right hand, flexing the fingers. ‘I’ve still got my good hand.’

James ruthlessly crushes back a tide of thoughts that suddenly wish to associate themselves with William’s ‘good hand’ and stands up. ‘This is nonsense. I’m not allowing you to go back to a boarding house with no-one to take proper care of you.’

‘Not _allowing_ me?’ William’s eyebrows go up and he moves to sit forward but he fumbles trying to compensate for his left hand with his right and ends up only sliding down the pillows.

‘You can’t even get yourself out of bed.’ James drops his hat on the chair. ‘I’m going to make a call.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And surely, _surely_ he should feel worse about all of this.

It isn’t until James gets William back to his own house, settled into the room Elliott had the maids make up, and is safely back in his own bedroom that he lets himself collapse, flopping backwards over the bed in a way he hasn’t since he was a small child. 

What he feels mostly is tired, bone-deep. He had to put _effort_ into being with William in a way he hasn’t had to with someone for a very long time. Since they’d left the hospital, he had been painfully aware of William’s presence and his own need to be very particular in his choice of words, still more particular when offering William assistance. Giving a friend much-needed help during an emergency should be simple, a very straightforward social interaction. Having William in the next bedroom is _not_ a straightforward social interaction. He groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Sally had been meant to take care of _all_ of this. His marriage was going to end all of this foolishness that had begun at his boarding school -- a first William -- and dogged him through university -- Theodore and then, briefly, Russell. 

‘Now if only she hadn’t turned out to be a megalomaniac,’ he says aloud and groans again. 

And he can’t lie to himself enough to pretend that it wasn’t the masculinity in Sally’s character that had attracted him as much as her overt femininity. She was the only woman he had ever met -- apart from Dr Ogden -- who had seemed at all interested in keeping up with him intellectually speaking. 

He’s humiliatingly aware at this point that Sally was, in fact, much smarter than he is. She had certainly run rings around him without much apparent effort although, once he had been firmly caught, James knows he hadn’t given her much trouble. He had defended her right up until the last possible second that defense could be supported -- and, if anyone ever does invent time travel, then James Pendrick will be the first in line for the sheer pleasure of hauling her before the police himself.

But adding her intelligence to the almost tangible aura of physicality she carried with her and -- well, James makes no pretence to being any less susceptible than other men, just to having slightly better self-control. And -- well -- honestly, when he met Sally it had been a very long time since anyone at all had expressed interest in more than a handshake.

He remembers -- vividly -- the first time they were...together -- a week before their wedding and at Sally’s instigation. Now he wonders if it was evidence of last-minute panic on her part: would she be able to carry this through after all? Would she be able to put up with him for long enough to carry out her plan? It’s really only further evidence of his having been a blinkered idiot, as stupid when it came to sex as anyone who’d never gotten out of grammar school. 

He still remembers the feeling of sheer _relief_ he had felt when her hands on his body felt good, when touching her felt good, when his prick responded the way it was supposed to and it felt _good. This_ was what he was supposed to do, this was how it was supposed to feel. He had finally figured it out and could check that last box. No William or Theo or Russell could bother him now.

He winces away from reviewing the last few months of his marriage apart from the bitter observation that now he knows the deeper reason for his sharp jealousy over seeing Sally and William together. No wonder it had been _William_ he pulled away from Sally and not the other way around. Just the cap this day needed: full confirmation that his personality is irrevocably warped.

And surely, _surely_ he should feel worse about all of this. 

William will never think to look at him in that way, he’s sure of that. Even if it weren’t for the fact that William is almost visibly magnetized to Julia Ogden, James is fairly sure a faithful Catholic is not his own best choice for a mid-life romantic fixation. This is a one-way street that can will get him absolutely nowhere -- so why does he feel almost -- giddy? 

He groans again and lets himself drop back across the mattress, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Perhaps bringing William to the house hadn’t been a good idea -- perhaps -- perhaps -- He shakes his head against the bedspread. It’s too late for that now. Although perhaps he should have been a bit more specific about the room Elliott should make up: the bedroom on the other side of his own dressing room was hardly ideal. The possibilities were -- entirely too easy to imagine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...as William considers the question, he realises that he does have a much -- clearer image of James than he thought he had.

William lies on the neatly made up bed and closes his eyes. The mattress is much more comfortable than the one at the hospital and it’s good to have the unpleasant tangle of hospital chemicals -- carbolic, ether, chloroform all with an undernote of blood -- out of his nose. The window is pushed open but the curtains are drawn and the room is dimming towards sunset. He can smell warm earth, grass, and flowers coming through the window and his thoughts slide and slip around each other; he’s tired and in more pain than he had liked to admit to James. 

In his coat pocket is the scrip for morphine that the hospital doctor had given him but ever since the incident with the gold thieves who had taken his boarding house hostage, he hates taking the stuff. It leaves him cloth-headed and woolly for what feels like days afterwards.

There are steps on the carpeted floor outside, a quiet knock on a door that isn’t his, voices, one of them James, the other presumably a servant. Then a door closes and the footsteps retrace themselves in retreat, probably going downstairs. It must be near time for some meal or other although he can’t say food sounds all that appetizing. His shoulder only hurts when he moves but _breathing_ seems to count as moving; he’s conscious of the wound as a dull throb even as he lies perfectly still. 

A breeze rustles the curtains and he can hear the click of garden shears outside. It had been kind of James -- if a bit presumptuous -- to kidnap him in the name of greater comfort. His boarding house certainly wouldn’t have been as pleasant as this and the prospect of having someone to talk to once he feels like talking is certainly more appealing than either the copy of _King Solomon’s Mines_ George had tucked into his coat pocket at the hospital -- “It’s my favorite, sir; I’m sure you’ll enjoy it” -- or mapping out the curls of gilt on the ceiling for the _n_ th time. 

He remembers Julia, talking to him from the chair of her desk at the morgue, smiling in that way she had when she felt she knew something he hadn’t noticed yet. 

_‘I’m glad you and Mr Pendrick have gotten over your -- antipathy.’_

_‘As am I. He’s a charming companion.’_

_‘Yes, so I see.’ Julia pauses for a moment. ‘I’ve never known you have such a close friend before, William.’ She must see his expression change because she hastens on: ‘I’m not trying to--’ She stops and laughs, leaning back in her chair. ‘I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to do.’_

_‘Are you -- concerned about--’ William hesitates, not really wanting to finish the sentence. ‘The Inspector has -- mentioned to me--’_

_Julia grimaces. ‘Yes, I’m sure he has. No, I don’t think Mr Pendrick is trying to suborn you to any criminal activity -- and I don’t think he would succeed if he tried. No, I was -- I was thinking about the night at the theatre.’_

_William remembers it well: it had been one of the last nights a travelling Shakespeare company from England had been in the city. James had been fortunate enough to get tickets through an acquaintance at the bank and generous enough to invite William and Julia. They had had a most pleasant dinner afterwards and have dined out as trio several times since. William has enjoyed these occasions heartily and it pains him to think that Julia has not._

_She must read the discomfort in his expression because she leans forward and touches his hand. ‘No, William. That isn’t what I meant. I --’ She hesitates again and then says slowly, ‘I am...wondering, though. How much you have thought about your particular friendship with Mr Pendrick.’_

_‘Thought about our friendship?’ Sometimes it seems to William that in the first weeks after Sally’s disappearance he had thought about little else. It’s been over a year, almost two, since then and he isn’t aware of worrying over his friendship with James specifically. They dine together once or twice a week or meet in town to attend a talk or a concert. Occasionally he has taken advantage of James’ larger workspace to work out a problem -- what is there to think about? ‘I am -- quite satisfied in my own mind that James was guilty of no wrong-doing--’_

_‘Oh, yes, yes, yes, I know that.’ Again, Julia waves her hand. ‘No, it seems quite obvious that his wife was the malefactor in all of that. It just -- it struck me when we were at the theatre: how very much you and Mr Pendrick are -- that you enjoy one another’s company as you and I...enjoy one another’s company.’ _

_William blinks. ‘James and I?’_

_Julia is watching him closely, her gaze intent, her hands folded over her knees. ‘Yes. I thought perhaps you had already realised the similarity but, judging from your expression, you haven’t.’_

_‘Julia, I --’ William can feel himself flushing -- is Julia seriously suggesting he would be guilty of that sort of criminal connection? With James? When has he ever given an indication that he would be guilty of something like that! He is very fond of James, of course, but what Julia seems to be suggesting is -- he’s sure James would be horrified by the suggestion. What on earth is Julia thinking? And did she think he would engage in such a...liaison behind her back? _

_‘William, I don’t think you’ve been lying to me.’ Julia stands up and begins pinning her hat on with brisk, sure movements. ‘But it’s very difficult for a man to see his own expression.’_

_‘His own expression,’ William says flatly._

_She pulls her jacket on, settling the waist over the belt of her skirt. ‘Your expression when you look at him.’_

_‘Julia, I don’t--’_

_‘It really is quite similar to how you look at me.’ She smiles at him and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘Now. You promised me tea.’_

William sighs and twists on his mound of pillows. An unwary movement sends a bolt of pain across his chest from his shoulder and he freezes in mid-inhale then, slowly, slowly, lets himself take a deep breath. The ferocity of the pain eases almost immediately.

See his own expression, indeed. Nonsense. 

And yet.

Julia didn’t _usually_ talk nonsense. Certainly never to him. Even during that ill-considered -- albeit enjoyable -- venture with the bottle of absinthe, she’d been able to say what she wanted, when she wanted to. When she spoke, she meant to be listened to. 

Therefore he can’t simply dismiss what she’d said out of hand; she didn’t speak to fill silence or take up space in the room. And the fact that he had remembered -- almost word for word -- what she had said was surely indicative. But indicative of what? She still isn’t _right_ \-- he and James have _never_ \-- would _never --_

He can’t even find a verb to put at the end of that sentence and he wonders dozily if Julia could. What had she meant: that he looked at James the same way he did at her? How did he look at her, then? Presumably however he looked at her reflected how he felt about her -- he can feel pain slowing his thoughts down, making them sticky.

If he was looking at Julia, what would his expression be? Well, he _likes_ her, obviously, so presumably it would show that. He thinks she’s beautiful, so he’s sure there’s that as well. But more than that: she’s clever, good at hooking puzzle pieces together, incredibly competent in a grotesque field that often turns his stomach, knows him well enough to make a black day lighter. She’s kind, more considerate of her subordinates than many people he knows-- 

His train of thought dissolves into vague, pleasant thoughts of Julia but the question nags at him: when he looks at James, does his expression show all of those things? Well. He _likes_ James, so, yes, there’s that. James isn’t kind in the same way Julia is -- but he is generous, more thoughtful than he likes to admit. William has gotten a very clear sense over the past two years of how many charities in Toronto list large donations from “Anonymous” or “Generous Donor” that really should read “James Pendrick.” And James must be pulling his financial strings very tightly in order to squeeze out some of that money; William doesn’t know the exact numbers, but he knows Sally drained a good deal of his financial resources. James’ enthusiasm for his inventions has never flagged -- that was what first brought them back together after Sally’s disappearance, a mechanical question James had, reluctantly, sought William’s advice on. But enthusiasm doesn’t make for a saleable product and James hasn’t put in a patent application or looked for investors in months.

James isn’t beautiful -- but as William considers the question, he realises that he does have a much -- _clearer_ image of James than he thought he had. He can remember the first time -- three months ago -- when James had first bought that puce tie of which he is ridiculously fond and which William feels should be burnt. The dark color makes James’ face sallow, makes his hair look faded, particularly by electric light. It was a minor problem, admittedly, since the line of James’ jaw couldn’t be damaged by the proximity of a color and his eyes--

William blinks and looks up at the shadowy ceiling.

These thoughts barely makes sense. The nature of his relationship with James is entirely different, _has_ to be. Men who -- who like the company of other men must surely have some fundamentally different way of expressing themselves. And perhaps they do. But he can’t help remembering the men at the tennis club. How _he_ \-- the one who had gone undercover carefully dressed and prepared to fit into a group that he and the others on the case had all assumed must to be so different -- had been the one looking like a reject from a travelling theatre company. 

The rest of the men at the club had just been -- men. Sitting on the porch of their country club, more or less well-dressed, drinking tea, reading newspapers, chatting. There had even been an older man dozing in one shady corner. It had been just like any one of two dozen other clubs he could name within a ten-mile radius. And Lawrence Braxton had been perfectly polite, even charming, just -- charming toward William rather than a young woman. 

And he couldn’t honestly say there had been anything -- distasteful in Braxton’s actions. He had been restrained, considerate, even -- delicate, really. William still feels ashamed of having had to deceive the man so baldly. It really could have been handled with much more...courtesy -- and then, of course, Inspector Brackenreid had made it all ten times worse. There was no way he could have talked the Inspector into it, but William still feels they owe Braxton an apology. The best William had been able to do, at the time, was to offer the warning. But it really wasn’t much. 

There’s a tap on his door and then it opens softly. ‘William?’

He struggles to sit up and has to abandon the attempt when his hand becomes entangled in the fringe of the bedspread. ‘Yes?’

‘I came to help you down to dinner.’ There’s a quiet click and the room is brightly lit. James is standing by the door, one hand on the doorknob. He comes forward into the room and laughs when he sees William’s tangle, then steps to the side of the bed and bends down to unwind the thick strands from where they’ve tangled around William’s one free wrist.

With James this close and his own thoughts so strange -- so hazy and soft and unclear around the edges and so unlike his usual self -- William is abruptly aware that he knows _exactly_ what Julia meant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Julia, I -- it isn’t a question of being _happy--’_
> 
> ‘Yes, William. It is.’

‘Hello, William.’ Julia smiles at him from the door and comes forward into the room. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Julia!’ William drops the book he had been reading. He can feel himself flushing as she stands there and winces. He must look as guilty as any street arab he ever buttonholed on a street corner over a missing loaf of bread or mysteriously muddied laundry.

She pauses a step or so away from the bedside and tilts her head. ‘Yes?’ She frowns slightly. ‘James said you wanted to see me--’

‘Yes, yes, I did, I -- could you -- close the door please?’

Julia looks at him for a moment, retraces her steps, shuts the door firmly, and comes back to the bedside. ‘William, what’s wrong? Is your arm bothering you?’

William shakes his head, unable to meet her eye. ‘Oh, no, my arm is fine.’ He tries to stop himself fiddling with the fringe of the blanket over his legs and finally grips his hands tight together under the soft woollen weave. ‘Nothing is… _wrong,_ exactly.’ If he keeps on like this, Julia’s going to go for her medical kit or call one of her colleagues from the sanitarium and he doesn’t blame her. He takes a deep breath and glances up at her. ‘Do you remember -- some time ago -- we -- you spoke to me about -- about James.’

Julia frowns for a minute, then her face clears and she nods. ‘Yes, I remember.’ She frowns again, then looks at him, the corner of her mouth twitching up. She sits on the bed, dropping her hat near his feet, and leans forward, putting a hand on his wrist above the tangled fringe. Her voice is low, amused, almost conspiratorial. ‘William, have -- did --’ She hesitates and her mouth twitches again. He groans and closes his eyes, unable to look at her a moment longer. ‘You understand what I meant now.’

‘Yes.’ He nods, feeling the motion as almost theatrically overdone, as if he were trying to signal to her across a crowded room. His cheekbones and forehead burn with embarrassment. ‘Yes, I understand what you meant.’ She covers her mouth for a moment and he sighs, falling back against the pillows. ‘Don’t bother -- I know you’re laughing.’

‘I’m not -- William, _truly,_ I’m not laughing at you.’ She clasps her hands together over his and she is smiling, but it isn’t cruel, just amused and -- and _fond_ which somehow makes him feel even worse. 

He groans again and resists the urge to pull the afghan over his head like a child hiding from the dark. ‘You shouldn’t be talking to me at all!’

‘Why on earth not?’

He stares at her. ‘Julia! This -- it’s --’ He chokes on words and has to stop.

‘William.’ She sits back, clasping her hands in her lap and adopting what he thinks of as her lecturing tone. ‘Did you think about _why_ I tried to have that conversation with you?’

‘I -- I --’ He takes a deep breath and forces himself to be quiet. ‘No.’ 

Julia nods and looks away out the window for a moment as if gathering her thoughts. ‘I told you about my friend Elizabeth -- who I met in London?’

He has to think for a minute and then for the life of him he can’t see why it’s relevant and part of him wants to snap at Julia that doesn’t she _understand_ that something _terrible_ has happened and what are they going to _do_ about it and what can her colleague in London _possibly_ have to do with it? He takes a deep breath and makes himself hold it for a moment. ‘Yes. The young Indian woman at the medical school.’

‘Exactly. Elizabeth Parvati Patil.’ Julia pauses for a minute after saying the name and William can see her cheeks staining faintly with color. ‘She will be coming to Toronto in a month to stay with me and study at the hospital here.’

‘I’ll -- look forward to meeting her.’ It’s the only thing he can think to say and it feels lunatic because he’s _sure_ he just told Julia--

‘Yes. You’ll like her, I’m sure.’ She looks away out the window again and then takes a deep breath and turns to him, flipping the afghan back and gripping his hands between hers. ‘William -- you know I love you very much. I know we’ve both been -- waiting for the right time to marry and I still want that. Very much.’

She’s speaking with a very particular intensity, as if she wants him to take note of each word she’s saying, and William can think of nothing to do except wrap his fingers around hers and squeeze back. ‘Yes. I know.’ 

‘Elizabeth and I -- became -- very close when we were in London.’ Julia pauses, studies his face for a minute as if looking for something, then goes on slowly, ‘I -- imagine we will be close when she is here, too.’

William blinks at her for a minute before he makes the connection. Once he does, he isn’t sure if he’s elated or miserable or both. The emotions seem to be competing and he’s starting to feel slightly ill from the confusion. Involuntarily, he moves to pull his hands back but Julia won’t let go. ‘Julia, I -- I don’t understand.’ 

‘No, I didn’t either until I came back. I thought --’ She makes a careful motion with her head without letting go of his hands. ‘I thought perhaps my -- tastes had changed. That sort of thing does happen, you know, and as a girl, I--’ She stops herself. ‘That isn’t important. But when I came back and saw you again--’ She smiles and presses his hands again. ‘It was quite clear to me my feelings for you _hadn’t_ changed.’

‘So -- but -- I --’ What is he supposed to say to this, to any of this? What response does she want?

‘But the way I _understood_ them --' She presses his hands, as if she can get her meaning in through his skin somehow. 'The way I thought about us, about you and me, William, had.’ 

‘The --’ He’s starting to wonder if he really has taken morphine by accident and this is all some kind of fever dream. ‘Julia, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

‘My relationship with Elizabeth -- yours with James -- I don’t believe we need look at them as _threats_ to what _we_ have.’ She grips his hands tightly and shakes them to underscore the point. ‘One of the most interesting things I learned during my time in Vienna -- and in reading Doctor Ellis’ books -- was the sheer _variety_ there can be in human relationships. William, you’ve no notion of how _limited_ we’ve made ourselves!’ 

William shakes his head slowly. ‘No, I… I suppose I haven’t.’

‘You really should read Ellis’ book when you’re feeling a little better -- and Krafft-Ebing’s as well although his terminology is something _dreadful,_ especially in translation --’ She stops herself, shaking her head firmly. ‘That isn’t the point. The point _is_ that I know I love you, William, and I want to be with you. But Elizabeth and I -- have something I don’t want to give up either. And I don’t believe that fact makes what you and _I_ have less...less _central_ in any way. Or less important to either of us.’

William stares at her, more than a little dazed. Were it not for the fact that he can feel the edge of her lace cuff on his knuckles and the cool breeze from the window, he might be tempted to think he was asleep. ‘Are...I don't...what are you suggesting, Julia?’

Julia takes a deep breath, straightening herself and shaking back non-existent loose hair. ‘I suggest we...speak a little more freely than we have done. And perhaps...perhaps _act_ a little more freely as well.’

‘Act more freely.’

She’s flushing slightly, but her voice stays steady. ‘I know you love me, William, and -- and I have no doubt you desire me -- as I do you.’ The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly and he can feel the heat of the blush burning his face. ‘And I want --’ She pauses and looks out the window, clearly trying to decide on a word. ‘--I want you to be...to be _happy._ James makes you happy. I’ve never seen you be -- like you are with him with anyone else. I _want_ you to have that.’ 

William is sure he can’t blush any more deeply than he already is. ‘Julia, I -- it isn’t a question of being _happy--’_

‘Yes, William. It is.’ Julia’s voice is firm and William falls silent in front of her obvious certainty; if nothing else, he has no surety to match hers. What she’s suggesting -- or seems to be suggesting… He’s sure he should find it unacceptable, possibly even revolting. He should be -- offended, disgusted that she would even _think_ of such a thing. 

He’s not sure at all what it means that it sounds… possible. More than possible, it makes something he hadn’t realised had been drawn tight in him relax, almost as much a physical relaxation as if she had touched the right spot on a sore muscle. It isn’t relief, although there’s that, too. It’s more like the feeling he has when a complicated problem is finally on the brink of solution: he has all the pieces in his hands, now it’s only a matter of fitting them together.

And had he realised how tense he had gradually become over the last few days at the thought of having this conversation with her? Why had he even _told_ her if not in hopes that she would say -- well -- something like what she has said? It would have been easy enough to let everything from the past ten days slip into oblivion; there was no reason for him to bring up a months-old conversation that Julia herself had clearly forgotten -- so why had he done it, unless...? 

There’s a tap on the door and James peers in. ‘I was wondering if you will be staying for dinner, Doctor Ogden?’

Julia doesn’t release William’s hands; instead, she shifts on the bed and smiles at James. ‘It would be a pleasure. And, please, Mr Pendrick: do call me Julia.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use "street arab" here as a contemporary term which, if I remember rightly, is used in the show, too. It describes young children, usually boys, who were out on the streets; [they might be begging, they might be thieving, they might be looking for work, they might be skiving off school, they might be doing any number of things.](http://www.victorianlondon.org/childhood/streetarabs.htm) The term was umbrella, generally uncomplimentary, and ragingly classist.
> 
> [There's a whole library of Havelock Ellis which Julia might and probably has read;](https://archive.org/details/medicalheritagelibrary?and%5B%5D=havelock%20ellis) I was thinking particularly of the [Studies on the Psychology of Sex](https://archive.org/details/b20419570) series. The first volume came out in the 1890s and Ellis was noted as one of the first medical professionals to attempt to write sympathetically -- or at least non-punitively -- about homosexuality. 
> 
> Krafft-Ebing was another pioneer in the field of sexuality studies -- William might do well to learn German before tackling [his canon.](https://archive.org/details/medicalheritagelibrary?&and%5B%5D=krafft-ebing) I had in mind the _[Psychopathia Sexualis](https://archive.org/details/psychopathiaskraf)_ and have chosen a translation more or less at random here. Look at the larger set of results in the previous link to find others.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pleasant evening in the garden...

‘Am I doing something strange?’ James leans back in the garden chair, half-smoked cigarette between the fingers of his left hand. He hooks his elbows over the arms of the chair, letting his forearms hang lazily down so that the smoke spirals away from his fingers into the growing dimness.

‘What?’ William jolts, blinking himself out of observing, suddenly afraid that he has given himself away.

‘You’ve been studying me all evening.’ James takes a draw on the cigarette, propping his left elbow on the chair arm, and adds, ‘I was wondering if you were thinking of arresting me again.’

William laughs and wonders how he could have failed for so long to see what now seems so plainly, so _blatantly_ obvious. It’s been three weeks since James charitably kidnapped him from the hospital ward and for two of those weeks he feels like he’s done nothing but study James and try to make sense of his own thoughts. He could now sit down and draw James from memory -- if he could draw without a compass and ruler which he can’t -- but his thoughts make no more sense than they have since that first evening when James had to untangle him from the afghan.

It isn’t as though William’s had much else to do or anything to distract him; the hospital doctor had thoroughly terrified Brackenreid about the possibilities for William’s arm should he fail to rest it sufficiently so he’s been off-duty the whole time. He’s taken full advantage of James’ library and wandered longingly around his laboratory. James had given him the tour of his current projects; they'd argued amicably over the chemical mix James wanted to use in a battery for a child's toy. Honestly, William would have thought James had nothing to do except entertain _him_ if he hadn’t known better -- although James has been excusing himself more often over the past three days. William had eaten dinner alone for the past two nights. But still, given how much time they’ve spent in each other’s company, it would be a miracle if James hadn’t noticed something was odd. ‘Have you been doing something I should arrest you for?’

James shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so. Not lately, anyway.’ He crushes out the end of his cigarette and lets it drop on the grass. ‘Littering, perhaps.’

‘It is your own lawn.’

‘It is,’ James agrees and pushes himself to his feet. ‘How are you feeling? Would you like a walk ‘round?’

* * *

They stroll around the edge of the lawn in silence, pausing at the bottom of the garden where there’s a long view into the plantation and a last faint sparkle from the river beyond. James stands in silence, his hands in his pockets, and William can’t shake the feeling that this is the build-up to a goodbye, that he is being dismissed. He’s done his best, but if James has detected a change in his manner -- an alteration in his voice, perhaps, or in his expression -- then there’s nothing to be done about it.

James clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry. William. If I’ve seemed -- odd tonight.’

‘Not at all.’ William is no longer sure that he’s capable of accurately coming to any conclusions about anyone’s behavior. He certainly hasn’t noticed James being anything other than himself.

‘I’ve -- had a lot on my mind recently. Makes me a little absent-minded. I hope I haven’t been a terribly awkward host.’ James flashes him a quick, almost shy, smile then fixes his eyes on the glitter of the river again. ‘I probably should have excused myself tonight but -- it’s been a wretched week with -- well, what with one thing and another.’

‘You haven’t been awkward at all, James.’ William wants to put a hand on his arm, to reassure with what would have been, three weeks ago, a simple friendly gesture. He hasn’t touched James since and he doesn’t dare try it now. ‘I’m -- sorry you’ve had a bad few days. You didn’t mention anything was wrong.’ William replays the words in his head; he _thinks_ they sound fine -- the same sympathy any friend might express -- but he can’t be sure and he doesn’t dare say anything else for fear of the words not coming out the way they should.

James laughs but it doesn’t sound right; there’s something flat in the sound and William shoves his hands in his pockets, ignoring the twinge of his left shoulder in favor of the safety of knowing he can’t reach out without thinking about it. 

‘Well, I’m glad you think so. I think -- I think I’m going to do some travelling soon. I’ve been considering it for awhile and a trip might be just what I need.’

‘Oh? Where to?’ William thinks his own voice sounds neutral, curious but not _over_ interested. But he can’t be sure; the thud of his pulse in his ears makes it hard for him to judge. 

‘I haven’t planned an exact itinerary yet. I’m thinking of moving.’ James turns away, walking slowly back towards the terrace.

‘Moving? Out of the city, you mean?’ William turns after him.

‘Yes. To Montreal possibly. Or -- or perhaps New York City.’

‘America!’ William stares after him. In the failing light, James is only a shape moving across the lawn. 

‘Yes. I think I might have better luck with some of my inventions there. The Americans, you know, are much better about that sort of thing than we are.’ James, still pacing slowly back towards the house, makes some gesture William can’t see. ‘Or perhaps Europe.’

‘Europe --’ William takes his hands out of his pockets, stares after James in dismay. He feels flatfooted, caught completely off-guard, like getting the one question he hadn’t anticipated when giving evidence in court. ‘James --’ 

‘I’m -- I -- I have a friend -- an old college friend -- Russell. He’s settled in France, been inviting me to visit for years -- perhaps I’ll take in London on my way--’ 

There’s an edge in James’ voice as he rattles on and William can’t stand listening to it after a moment or two. He catches James up in a few long steps and reaches for James’ arm as James moves to make another grand gesture. ‘James, what’s wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ James twitches his arm free impatiently and turns towards William, his back to the paved terrace where they had been sitting. ‘Nothing’s wrong -- aren’t I just telling you I’m going travelling! Would I be doing that if something were wrong?’

‘It’s Sally,’ William guesses. That would explain James having had a distracting week although not his sudden desire to move house-- ‘You’ve heard something about her. Tell me and I’ll--’

‘It isn’t Sally.’ James sounds pulled tight now. ‘I’ve heard nothing about her.’

‘Then what is it?’ William restrains himself from shouting but only just. He doesn’t know how he got this upset this quickly but this is wrong, this is all _wrong,_ and James isn’t a liar but he’s lying now and--

There’s a pause and James clears his throat. ‘Believe me, William, you do not want to know.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

‘No. I -- I want to leave here with you as my friend.’

‘Which means you think I won’t be if you’re honest with me.’

‘I know you won’t be.’ The scraped, painful edge has returned to James’ voice.

William grits his teeth. ‘If you can get over more than one wrongful arrest, then I imagine I can get over -- whatever this is.’

There’s a moment of silence and William can hear James take a deep breath. James rolls his shoulders, almost as if bracing for a punch, and William squints in the dying light, trying to see his expression. ‘If you insist then I suppose there’s nothing else for it. If you’d give your word not to arrest me again, I’d appreciate it.’

There’s silence again and William realises James is serious. ‘I won’t arrest you again.’ 

‘As a young man, I had -- friends. At boarding school and then at university.’ James pauses for a long, awkward moment and William is about to prompt him when he goes on: ‘And you’re about to say that, yes, you had friends, too, but you didn’t, not like this. These were -- _intimate_ friends. Not the kind the Jesuits approve of.’

William’s ears ring for a moment and he’s suddenly glad for the failing light that covers the blush he can feel on his cheeks. ‘And -- and --’ He can’t think of what the next words should be. _What did Julia tell you she saw in my face?_ is what he wants to ask but that’s obviously impossible. _If that’s true, then what was Sally?_ is almost equally impossible. ‘One of them is -- blackmailing you? _Threatening_ you?’ he hazards, grabbing for something that makes sense and unable to think of another situation where fleeing the country would seem like a reasonable solution. ‘Whatever they’re saying, we can find a way to--’

‘No-one is blackmailing me.’

‘Then what--’

‘Christ, for a man as bright as you are, you really can be incredibly slow.’ James sounds as though he’s on the brink of laughter and William can hear the edge of hysteria but he’s too close to that very emotion himself to know what to do about it. His ears are still ringing faintly and his breathing sounds rough and unsteady -- hopefully only to himself. He wants to grab James and shake him; he wants to turn and run across the lawn and never come back into this house again; he wants to walk away and pretend this entire conversation never happened; he wants to grab James and -- and -- 

‘Yes. There. Well done. I knew it wouldn’t take you too long.’

‘James, I--’ William’s voice sounds thready in his own ears, weak and indecisive and James simply speaks over him.

‘You can see why I wasn’t sure if New York would be far enough. Please do remember I’ve done nothing _actively_ criminal in years. All my recent crimes have been ones of imagination.’

William hadn’t known James could sound so bitter and he hadn’t known any words could make him feel as if all his clothes had shrunk at once and become much too hot. 

‘So there you have it. I hope your thirst for knowledge has been well and truly satisfied for once.’ James lets out a long, ragged breath. ‘I’ll leave you to--’

‘Wait.’ William catches James’ elbow again as he turns to step onto the stone flags of the patio. 

James doesn’t turn around but doesn’t pull free. ‘For what? I’d prefer not to be castigated to my face if you don’t mind. Say whatever you wish when I’m not here--’

‘I don’t want to say anything when you’re not here.’

James pulls against William’s grip, then William feels the muscles of his arm slacken and he sighs but still doesn’t turn back. ‘I never thought you were a cruel man, William.’

‘James!’

‘Please, _please_ \-- just -- just--’ James pauses and clears his throat, then takes a deliberately long breath. His voice no longer sounds on the edge of breaking when he speaks again. ‘Leave me the remembrance of our friendship as it was. Just -- leave me that.’

William chokes, literally and figuratively, unable to come up with anything sensible to say. Julia was right -- had been right all along -- had seen with eyes so much clearer than his and even known the right words to say what she saw and he doesn’t have those words and now he’s on the verge of another silence that will see someone he now knows he cares for so very deeply flee to _America_ \-- or even further! 

‘William?’

He feels James’ hand on his and fumbles to grab it, interlacing their fingers and holding on so tightly that James won’t be able to get away. Thank heaven it’s his right hand -- he can’t yet grip very well with the left. ‘There’s nothing I want -- I don’t want to say anything when you’re not here because then you won’t be here to hear it. I -- I want you to hear it, James. I just don’t know what I should say!’

‘What you should say?’ James sounds bewildered now. ‘Say goodbye, William. Say you’ll remember me kindly and -- and do your best to forget what I’ve told you--’

‘I don’t want to forget it!’

There’s a moment of silence and then James repeats: ‘You don’t want to forget it.’

‘Julia tried to -- I didn’t understand what she told me at first --’

‘Julia.’ James repeats the name on a sigh and gently tries to free his hand from William’s. ‘Julia is precisely the reason you should let me say good evening and--’

‘No!’ Made bold by fear in the same way that he had once been made bold by absinthe, William takes a step forward and does what he would have considered unthinkable sixteen months before: he kisses James Pendrick.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and what came after.

James is absolutely still; William might as well be holding the hand of a statue or have his lips pressed against those of a painting. 

‘William…’ His name comes out on a sigh against his mouth and William thinks he might have to ask people to start calling him by his middle name because he’s never going to be able to hear his first name again without blushing. ‘...what are you doing?’

William chuckles nervously. _‘Now_ who’s being slow?’

James slides his free hand around the back of William’s neck and pulls their foreheads together. ‘You -- you’re not -- you’re not _like_ this -- you and Julia--’

‘It’s -- it’s all right, she knows, she -- she was the one who told _me--’_ William nearly breaks out laughing but swallows it back, aware he’s on the line of hysteria. James hasn’t said anything and William puts his free hand on James’ shoulder. ‘It is all right, I promise you, I -- Please, James, say you’re not leaving.’

‘This is all so I won’t take a trip?’ It could be a joke but there’s a thread of bitterness that makes it impossible to take lightly.

‘What do you think of me? No, it isn’t so you won’t take a trip.’ William is pleased to hear steadiness coming back to his voice. Now that the Rubicon is crossed, so to speak, the anxiety is -- gone. He still can’t tell what the next move is going to be but he’s no longer nervous about whether or not he’s coming to the right conclusions. 

James moves as if to speak, bites his lower lip, then says very softly, ‘I would...very much...like to kiss you again.’

Before William can say anything, someone turns on a light in the upstairs hall and a bright rectangle of yellow is cast on the grass beside them. William feels James’ hand tighten on his shoulder and then they’re standing apart, quite indistinguishable from any other pair of gentlemen having a quiet stroll around a garden in suburban Toronto. 

James clears his throat but says nothing and William tries to fill the gap: ‘Perhaps...somewhere else?’

James makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a choke. ‘I didn’t -- I wasn’t -- I hadn’t -- prepared for this.’ 

William feels a distinct drop of disappointment and tells himself firmly not to be a fool. What had he even been expecting to happen that he should be disappointed? 

‘Wait a minute.’ James reaches out and squeezes his hand once, hard, then turns and is gone into the house. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [_King Lear_](http://www.bartleby.com/46/3/31.html).


End file.
